


Brown-eyed Blues (1/5)

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-03
Updated: 2002-02-03
Packaged: 2018-11-20 19:57:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: An odd and quirky romance that starts with a car accident and ends with a home invasion.





	Brown-eyed Blues (1/5)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Brown-eyed Blues (1/5)

## Brown-eyed Blues (1/5)

#### by Ganymede

Title: Brown-eyed Blues (1/5)  
Author: Ganymede  
Feedback to:   
Author's Website:   
Status: Complete  
Category: Unclassified  
Pairing (Primary): Skinner/Krycek  
Pairing(s) (Secondary): Mulder/Krycek  
Crossover Fandom (if any):   
Crossover Info (if any):   
Other Pairing Info:   
Rating: NC-17  
Spoilers: Assume everything up to Season Eight (I'm living in denial, boys and girls)  
Permission to Archive:   
Series or Sequel/Prequel:   
Notes: Chapter 1- Battered and Bruised, and Chapter 5 -Breaking and Entering have already been posted and archived various places. In my usual style, I wrote the last chapter first, then the first chapter, then the rest about three months later.  
Warnings:   
Disclaimer: Krycek, Skinner, Mulder, and Scully belong to CC and 1013 productions. Jarod belongs to TNT. The Dalai Lama belongs to the world.  
Summary: An odd and quirky romance that starts with a car accident and ends with a home invasion.

* * *

Chapter 1 - Battered and Bruised 

When the cell phone rang, it startled me out of my half-asleep reverie with such violence I nearly fell off the hard plastic waiting room chair. After the night I'd had, becoming entirely too well acquainted with the dirty linoleum floor was not an experience I needed. 

I fumbled with the tiny cell phone. Hate these things. My first act, once I retire, will be to throw my cell phone and my pager into the closest available ocean. 

"Skinner." Growling. Person on the other end doesn't like it, they shouldn't be calling me before 5 A.M. 

"Walter, it's me." Mulder. Definitely used to my growling by now. 

"Where the hell are you, Mulder? You took off out of here with the disks like the hounds of hell were chasing you." I really, really dislike hunting for that man. So, of course, in some fit of cosmic irony, that's most of what I do. He vanishes. I try to find him. 

"I'm at the Gunmen's. How is our injured friend?" 

Deep sigh and a rub of my tired eyes. "Where do you want me to start - top or bottom?" 

"Definitely top. I always start there, and work my way down." 

Letch. Are you ever _not_ thinking about sex? 

"Starting from the top, but saving the best for last. He has a fractured skull, a broken jaw, damaged trachea, compound fractures of the radius and ulna, six broken ribs, and enough stitches in his abdomen and legs to make a patchwork quilt." Mulder inhaled sharply in the background. 

It had been painful to watch Krycek being wheeled out of the operating room. I don't even like the man, and it hurt. 

"So what's the best part that you were saving for last?" 

"His trachea was badly damaged - crushed, to be precise. When he was carried in here, he wasn't breathing. They don't know how long his brain was without oxygen. He may very well have permanent brain damage. We won't know for a few days, maybe longer." 

"F*ck. That can't happen. I need to talk to him, Walter." 

"What did you find on those disks?" Dammit, stop fooling around and tell me. 

Mulder's shark smile was audible through the phone. "What did we find? The motherlode. These disks have everything we need, everything we could ever want to bring the Consortium to its knees. He was on his way to give you the head of the serpent on a silver platter, Walter. By the way, were they the ones who attacked him?" 

More cosmic irony. God is, truly, an iron. "Nope. He was attacked by an Olds Delta 88 four-door." 

Alex `Indestructible' Krycek, survivor of alien possession, deep forest amputations, and a million and one other shocks that flesh is heir to, was finally brought to death's door by a car. Granted, the car had been traveling at nearly 60 MPH when it hit him as he was crossing the street, but it still seemed like such an ignoble way for the Rat Bastard to go. 

"Is he going to survive?" 

Was that a note of honest concern in your voice, Mulder, or is this just a bad connection? 

I shrugged. Doesn't work too well over the phone, I know. "They don't know. His injuries are not life-threatening, but the hypoxia and resulting brain damage could still kill him. If he wakes up, he'll probably be able to heal. It will take him a long time, but they're all flesh wounds." 

"How long are we talking here?" 

"His jaw is wired shut, and he has a tracheotomy. He's in a cast up to his elbow. The surgeon said six to eight weeks before he'd be able to take care of himself." 

"F*ck. Walter, what are we going to do?" 

I thought of a million - no, a million and one - good reasons why we should just turn Krycek over to the police and let them deal with him. Except that both of us knew the RatBastard wouldn't survive the night in custody, especially in this state. He had too many enemies for that. Very few people would cry at his funeral. Two hours ago, I would have danced. 

Now? 

Now he lay injured, broken, all because he was trying to pass me information that would give me my fondest wish - bring down the Smoking Man and his Consortium cronies. 

And Mulder wanted him alive. 

And Mulder always got what he wanted. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 

I hate this. 

I absolutely f*cking hate this. 

My one good arm - in a cast up to my elbow. 

Jaw wired shut. 

Sixty-two stitches. 

Ribs taped. 

More bandages than an extra on Nosferatu. 

It's not the pain that's making me psychotic - hell, some people would say I was psychotic long before I tried to french-kiss the bumper on an Olds Delta 88. I know how to deal with pain. Pain and I are old friends. 

No, what's making me climb the walls is the fact that I can't do f*cking anything for myself! 

With my jaw wired, I can't eat solid food. It's only been a week, and I am already sick and tired of puree. If I see one more bowl of soup, I'm going to be forced to kill someone with a sharpened spoon. I want nachos, g_d damn it! I want steak! 

Ben and Jerry's Chocolate Silk ice cream, however, nuked until it's drinkable, is almost better than heroin. Almost. Not that I can hold a spoon. 

With two pins in my wrist and a cast from palm to elbow, I can't use my hand. Can't pick anything up without shooting pains. Can't make a fist. Can't hold a pencil. Can't even jack off. My one remaining hand - f*cking useless. 

Note to self - in future, avoid skull fractures. The double vision and headaches afterwards are a real b*tch. Reading's right out. Feels like someone's trying to improve sinus drainage by burying an axe in my forehead. My eyes won't focus right, and the room starts to spin. Watching TV isn't as bad - then it's the content that makes me nauseous, not the concussion. 

The pain isn't too bad. They're keeping me pretty well medicated. Repeat after me, class - Demerol is your friend. They have to give me shots every six to eight hours because I can't take pills with my jaw wired shut. They don't give me so much that I feel no pain whatsoever, but just enough to take the edge off. I feel.buzzed. Stoned. It's hard to think. 

Maybe that's a good thing. I don't want to think. Every time I try to figure out what the f*ck I'm doing here, in this house, with them, someone starts doing a rendition of the 1812 Overture inside my skull. I'm in no shape to make sense of it. I'm really in no shape to beat some sense into the person who desperately needs it. Especially since I think that person is me. 

The worst part of all this isn't my arm. It isn't my mouth. It isn't being strung out on painkillers for days at a time. 

The worst part of all this is that I can't even whine about it. 

I can't talk at all. 

I'm under strict orders from the doctor not to talk. No whispering. No nothing. My vocal chords were pretty badly chopped up in the accident and the ensuing tracheotomy, and they need time to heal. The more I talk, the longer that will take. Simple equation, really. Quiet now = regain the ability to talk later. So, for the foreseeable future, I'm mute. 

It's driving me insane. 

I really, really hate this. 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 

Lying here, in Walter Skinner's guest bedroom, surrounded by his scent, pretending to sleep, waiting. 

I can feel him standing in the darkened doorway. 

Watching me. 

Thinking. 

Deciding. 

Can't hear his footsteps in the thick carpet, but I can feel him move. I can sense him. Echolocation. Wondering if I could before, if I concentrated hard enough. Has he always been there, in the back of my head? 

Feel the bed dip, then his body heat close behind my back. Lying on my stump, trying to find a comfortable position for my cast, my taped ribs, my jaw, my throat. It's a myth. More of a myth than those monsters Mulder and Scully keep chasing. There is none. 

Sleep is out of the question. Has been for days. 

Pretending to sleep is the best I can do. Lying still, breathing deeply. Evenly. 

Invisible. 

"I know you're awake, Krycek." 

Breath warm on the back of my neck, sending tiny electric spiderwebs down my spine. Oxygen catching in my throat. Don't squirm. Don't move. You're supposed to be asleep, remember? 

Wearing nothing but a pair of his cast-off white boxers - too big, perpetually threatening to slide down my hips. Sheets long since kicked to the foot of the bed. He's propped up on one elbow. I can feel his gaze traverse every inch of skin. Too much, too exposed. 

Fighting to keep my breathing slow, even, steady. Fighting the squirms that are building in my gut, warm throbbing between my legs. G_d, how long has it been, Krycek? Months? 

Can't even take care of it myself, not with my one remaining wrist broken, held together by pins and plaster. 

So hard it hurts. 

Breath is back, warm along my neck, my spine, my shoulders. Can't stop the trembling, the shudders that roll through me. I can feel, not hear, his low rumbling chuckle. 

He knows. 

He always did. 

I'm asleep. . . I'm asleep . . . I'm asleep . . . chanting my mantra. 

Blown all to hell by one finger playing peek-a-boo up my spine. Gasping between clenched teeth, back arched, squirming. Skin seeking. No contact but that one tormenting finger, circling each vertebra before drifting higher. 

Touch me. Please. 

Sharp teeth sinking into my shoulder, nipping at the corded tendons. Gasping, thrusting back, trying to find him, anchor myself in his skin, his warmth. Nothing there, rolling over onto my back. Tugging on the stitches in my abdomen, but I don't care at this point. Don't care about anything except that warm liquid need in my gut. 

Way, way too exposed now. 

Obvious. 

Liquid laughter pouring across my skin. "Still pretending to be asleep, Krycek?" 

I open my eyes, gaze locked into his brown eyes. 

He's still propped up on one elbow, eyes drifting across my body, laid out for his perusal. Lingering around my waist. Big sh*t-eating grin. I'm expecting him to start spitting out canary feathers any second. Immensely pleased with himself. 

"A question for you, boy." Voice honey-purr. "Have you always been this responsive? Or is there something about being helpless, unable to defend yourself, lying in your enemy's bed, that trips your trigger?" Leaning over closer to my ear, whispering. "Does the thought of being my personal plaything get you hard, boy?" 

Something hot and red flares inside my skull. I'm pushing away, trying to get as far from him as I can, before I give in to the impulse to hit, hurt. Inflict pain to match the pain I'm feeling. 

One large arm sliding across my waist, carefully avoiding the bandages, pushing the elastic of my boxers down to my hips, holding me in place on my back. Skin so warm, so close to where I'm begging to be touched.Squirming against the sensation, searching for friction, anything. 

Something. 

Please. 

My eyes traveling from the arm locking me in place back to his face, brown eyes watching me intently. His gaze effective restraint on its own. I'm trapped here, by my need. 

Looking away. I'm too f*cking vulnerable like this. The drugs and the pain are making me slow, stupid. No defenses, no match for a Girl Scout, much less him. The most dangerous of my enemies. 

"Look at me, Alex." 

Alex. 

He's never called me that before. Always Krycek. 

Honey-purr back, undertone of steel. 

"This is the way it's going to happen. If you don't like it, I'll take my toys and go back to my own bed." Gaze wandering back down below my waist, grin firmly in place. "Having trouble taking care of that little problem with a broken arm, are you?" 

Glaring at him. He laughs, moves his restraining hand in small circles across the hollow of my hip, through the soft cotton material, making me gasp. 

"I'm not going to hurt you tonight, Alex. 

I won't let you hurt yourself, either. 

If you want _anything_ to happen, you will do what I tell you. _Exactly_ what I tell you. No arguments. Understand?" 

I can't meet his eyes. Looking away, anywhere but at him. 

"Understand, Alex?" 

Hard swallow, like gargling with razor blades. Something about the close proximity to this man is making me stupid. Always has. Closing my eyes, disgusted with myself. Nodding, once. 

"This is the way it's going to happen, Alex. You will not talk. You will not move. You will lie there, limp as a rag doll, and let me touch you. If I want you to move, I'll move you. I will not have you opening up any of your stitches or injuring yourself any more than you already are. Got it?" 

Another nod. 

Arm gone from my waist. "Just relax, Alex. Let yourself go limp." Eyes back on the tent my boxers have morphed into. Another chuckle that danced across my skin. "As limp as you can in this condition, anyways." 

Trying to do as he says. Trying to lie as still as possible. 

Hand gently stroking my face, barely touching the bruised and broken skin. Impossibly gentle. Softer touch than I thought the big man was capable of. 

"Close your eyes, Alex." 

Complying, trying to slow my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose. 

Barest flitter of lips brushing against mine. Hand sliding up into my hair, holding my head still. Quick cat-lick across my bottom lip, then gone. Gasping. Teeth gently nipping at my lower lip, slowly rippling through my skin. I want this, want to kiss him, want to feel his tongue dancing with mine, but with my jaw wired shut, it's not possible. His tongue wanders across my teeth, then back to lips. Making me crazy. 

Bringing my cast-wrapped arm up to wrap around his neck. Need contact, need to find his skin, his heat. Need to touch him. 

Interception. 

Mouth gone. Quiet whimper - it hurts but I can't help it. 

Opening my eyes, finding angry brown eyes looking down on me, one large hand wrapped around the cast over my wrist. Holding my arm in place, trapped, immobile. 

Caught. 

"What part of `Don't Move' don't you understand, Alex?" Voice like razor wire and broken rocks. "If you can't follow a simple instruction like that, then there's no point in me staying here. I might as well go back to bed now." 

No. 

Please. 

Don't leave me like this. 

Begging him with my eyes, my entire body. 

Pushing my arm back down, laying it on the pillow next to my head. Surrender position. "Keep your eyes closed, Alex." Hissing in my ear. "And this time, _do not_ move." 

Doing as he asks. Letting my muscles go limp. Boneless. 

I can feel him smiling, as he looks over his prize. Body heat moving away as he changes position, bed shifting under his weight. 

Breath warm against my neck, over the bandages in the hollow of my throat, covering the healing trach wound. Sensations leaving tracks on my skin. Lying still, unmoving. Just as he asked. 

Breath wandering lower, teasing my chest hair, passing over my collarbone. Then it's gone. Still not moving. 

"Good boy." Beside my right shoulder. "You catch on quick. I think you deserve a reward for your exemplary behavior." 

Don't even want to know. Don't even want to think about it. Don't even want to. 

Lips and tongue launch a silent assault on my right nipple. Fingertips counterattack on the other flank. Electricity coursing through my body, triangulating between my legs. Trying so hard to be good. Trying so hard not to move. Teeth joining the attack, nipping at a hardened bud, one of the most sensitive spots on my entire body. 

Aw, hell. 

Hips thrusting involuntarily, desperately, needing friction between my legs. Back arched, shoulders barely touching the bed. Grabbing at the pillow with my hand, squeezing hard. My wrist screams, and I don't care. Pain-filled nerve endings being overloaded by the sensations in the rest of my body. 

Writhing on the bed, hips bucking under the double-pronged attack. His mouth, his fingers nibbling and pinching harder, almost to the point of pain. Sending me into orbit. 

Touch me, please. 

Or I'm gonna die. 

Then they're gone. Collapsing into the bed, muscles like rubber, skin vibrating, gulping oxygen. Drenched in sweat. 

He's changing positions again. Opening my eyes, trying to make them focus, trying to track him down. Self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face. Sitting up, legs crossed Indian-style, facing me, halfway down the bed. About level with my waist. 

I'm in trouble. 

"I'll take it you like having these pretty little things played with." Leaning over, blowing on the closest one. Cold air on wet skin making limp muscles contract, bucking again without benefit of his touch. Another slow sandpaper chuckle. "I bet they'd look really pretty decorated with a set of nipple clamps." 

Stomach muscles clenching involuntarily. Trying not to squirm at the thought. I've worn them before. With the right play partner, they could send me into a frenzy. 

Strong fingers carding through sweat-slicked hair. Closing my eyes, relaxing into his touch. Being petted like a cat, like a panther or puma. Almost tempted to purr, except I knew that any movement of my vocal chords would hurt like a son-of-a-b*tch. 

"Oh, my, Alex. You're quite sweaty." Teasing me. "It won't do to let you get overheated. Hmmm.I think if you were wearing less clothing you would definitely feel cooler." 

Looking up at him. He's leering at me. The only clothes I have on are his white cotton boxers, currently tight, definite wet spot developing. His hand slides out of my hair, meets its counterpart at the waistband of the boxers. 

"Lift your hips up, Alex." 

Trying to make the muscles in my legs and back work in tandem. Takes me a minute. They don't want to respond to commands right now. No clue why. 

Finally I manage to lift my hips off the bed. Sensation of soft cloth sliding over my very erect cock and the shock of cold air on sensitized skin making me gasp. Cloth sliding down past my knees, past my calves, and off. 

Closing my eyes. I'm not sure I want to see myself right now. 

Naked. 

Exposed. 

For him. 

Velvet purr pouring over me. "Oh, my, Alex. You look so pretty like that. Don't move - this is exactly where I want you. For now, at least." Slow chuckle. "I am going to enjoy playing with you, boy." 

His body moving, body heat going away. Bed shifting. Gone from my side, bed dipping again near the foot. Weight centering near my legs, off to one side. 

"Relax, Alex. Go limp. I'm going to position you how I want you. Just be a rag doll, and it won't hurt." 

Strong hands behind my knees, gentle grip with steel muscles, spreading my legs apart, until my hips and the stitches in my abdomen start to protest. Relaxed, just an inch or two. Then the hands are gone. 

He's moving again, mattress responding to the absence of his weight like I respond to the absence of his heat - desperate seeking. Mattress shifting down lower, sliding, then it stops. Centered between my legs. 

I can feel his eyes traveling across my skin, feel his self-satisfied grin, as he looks at me. My need on display. Vulnerable, open, for his pleasure. 

More turned on than I have ever been in my entire life. 

No contact. Just watching. Waiting. Screaming at him inside my head, touch me, please, touch me. I need it. Trying so hard to lie still, be a rag doll. Be good. 

I've never been good in my life, but I will. For him. 

Trembling. I don't know why. Working so hard at lying still, and the muscles in my chest and thighs won't stop shaking. 

"I know what you want, Alex." Dark, throaty voice, brushing against me. "I know what you need. And if you're very, very good, maybe I'll give it to you." 

Fingertips at the inside of my knees, slowly, agonizingly traipsing up my thighs, until they reach the juncture of my hips. Stopping. Starting again behind my knees. 

Shuddering. His touch burns like acid. 

Fingers stroking my abdomen, down, playing with my hair, down to my pubic bone. Just millimeters from where I need it so desperately. Stopping again. 

Gentle, slow stroke below my balls. Then gone. Then back. 

Holding on to my self-control by the thinnest thread. But I know, I know that if I move, if I do anything, he'll stop altogether. I don't get a choice in this one. 

I want to bite my lip. I want to thrash around under his gentle ministration. I want to squirm. I can't. 

Control disintegrating under his touch. One finger brushing the underside of my cock from the base to the tip. Hips thrusting helplessly. Writhing. 

Honey-purr. "I think you liked that a little too much. You're so sensitive, boy, you might not be able to last as long as I want you to. I definitely think we need to fit you with a cock ring." 

Oh, G_d. 

One of my play partners did that to me, many years ago. Made me beg for hours, while he tortured me. When he finally let me have that orgasm he had denied me for so long, I passed out. Most intense sex in my life. Until now. 

Moving around between my legs. Reaching for something - plastic from the sound. Wet, squishy noise. 

Lubricant. 

Can't stop the squirming. Hasn't even touched me, and I'm wriggling like a cat in heat. 

Cold, wet, slippery finger teasing my perineum. So close, so close, circling, stroking the skin around my ass, never quite touching. Thrusting my hips towards him involuntarily. One finger flicking across, and again. Pulses of electricity sparking through me with every touch. 

One fingertip barely inside, stroking the edge of the ring of muscles. Then out. Then in. Breath coming in gasps, gulping oxygen. Heart pounding so loud in my ears I can't hear anything else. 

Smooth lubricated push, and all the way in. 

Screaming, but all that comes out is a hoarse squeaky noise. Finger sliding almost all the way out, and back in. Again. Back arched, pulling on the stitches. Sharp, sweet sparks of pain adding to the pleasure. 

Another slick finger easing its way in. Frictionless, lubricated slide in and out. Thrashing my head back and forth. 

Hand rotating, changing the angle. Crooking his fingers, bumping up against the little bundle of nerve endings. Another squeak. Fireworks behind my closed eyelids. Apparently he likes my reaction, because he does it again, and again. I'm so close, so close. 

"You are going to feel so good wrapped around my cock, boy." Husky, low. Out of breath. "I am going to enjoy taking you apart, feeling you come while I'm inside you. But I'm not going to let you come yet." 

Fingers gone. Empty. Aching. Muscles nothing but overstretched rubber bands. Buzzing. 

"Go limp, Alex." 

Easy command to obey. Muscles wouldn't work if I paid them. 

Legs pushed together, hard muscular forearm under my knees, pulling my lower back off the bed. Something soft pushed under my ass. Pillows. Back down onto the stack of pillows, precariously perched on the edge. Legs spread again, even more exposed. 

More movement at the foot of the bed. Clothing rustling. Has he been dressed this entire time? How long has it been? Minutes? Days? Something metallic tearing, then a squishy sound. Condom and lube. 

Please. 

I need it so badly. 

Gentle, blunt pressure on my sphincter. Sparse hair on his legs tickling the inside of my thighs. Spreading my legs apart a little farther. Making myself more open for him. 

Tiny little thrusts, then pause. Another thrust, then pause. Hands gripping my hips, firm almost to the point of pain, pushing me into the pillows, not letting me move. Teasing me. A few more, feeling my body open up to him, the tip barely inside. Stretching muscles that haven't been stretched in a very long time. P leasure-pain-pleasure making me crazy. 

Long pause, leaving me gasping, trying to squirm under the vice grip around my waist. Then one smooth thrust, and he's buried all the way inside me. 

Strangled squeal. Impossibly long, impossibly thick, filling me completely. Lubricated slide, almost all the way out, just the head inside the ring of muscles. Then back in. 

Grip loosening. Letting me rock my hips back against him, an inch or so, in time with his thrusts. Desperate. Needy. Want all of him. 

Can't feel anything but that frictionless glide. No pain, no nothing. Hands gone from my waist. 

Bed shifting again. His heat blanketing me, strong arms on either side of my shoulders. Filled, stretched, marking me on the inside. 

Fire coil slowly building in the base of my spine, taser-fire arcing across my skin. Heart jack hammering in my chest. Shifting his hips, stroking that cluster of nerve endings with every stroke. I want to come. I need to come. I'm so close. 

"You belong to me now, boy." Snarl in my ear. "Mine." Heavy, hard body pressed against me, abdomen rubbing against my cock, chest hair brushing my nipples. Teeth sinking into my neck.. 

And I'm coming apart. 

Exploding, shredding to fragments, from the inside out. 

Darkness and silence for a long moment, then the world came rushing back in to fill the void. Opening my eyes slowly. I'm lying on my side now, carefully positioned not to put extra pressure on my broken arm, pillows gone, facing him. Abdomen and thighs damp. Skin wiped clean. His hands stroking my hair, my shoulder, my arm down to the cast. Lazy smile. He looks..sated. Like a lion after a successful kill. 

"Welcome back, Alex. Thought I lost you there for a moment. I'm not used to my partners fainting on me." 

I can feel the flush starting in the back of my neck, across my face, down to my chest. He laughs, a slow, gentle chuckle. Almost affectionate. 

"Will wonders never cease. Alex Krycek - blushing." 

Closing my eyes again. Boneless, muscles limp, soaking into the mattress. Barely awake. Slight movement, then a gentle brush of lips against mine. 

Manhandled briefly, draped across his body, head resting on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. 

"Go to sleep, Alex." 

And I let the blackness take me. 

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Ganymede 


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